Baum

Peter and I have a very special, very sweet, brand new addition to our little nuclear family. A little someone that I can't wait to wake up to every morning; that I can't stop thinking about at work; and that I hastily swerve through traffic at the end of the day to see. 

It's Baum, our Christmas Tree.

We named him on the ride home from Marmion Abbey Farms on Sunday, right after we pulled the car over to prop up the camera, set its timer, and take a picture of ourselves in one of those head-in-hole boards that Peter spotted on the way out. 

Last weekend, we had set our sights on trekking into a forest a la Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree to find the biggest, best tree. But living in the exurbs, surrounded for miles by urban sprawl, we figured a twenty minute drive to the tree farm in Aurora would suffice.

Upon arriving, we classified the wimpy trees left for public chopping as Charlie Brown-esque poor trees.  Knowing that we weren't going to return to a decorated tree house if we failed to find our perfect tree, we perused the pre-cut selection - a bounty of tall, full Douglas and Frazier Firs (why didn't they leave those where they were for us to chop down?) Among them was our big guy, calling to us, 'Pick me! Pick me!' So we overlooked it's eight and a half foot stature and the doubt in Peter's mind that it would fit, and packed it into the pick-up. Our very first Christmas tree. In our very first house. In the very first year of our marriage.

After surviving the two-hour hunt for a tree stand during the great tree stand shortage of 2011, finally finding one at the second Home Depot that we tried, we came home to start decorating. As I was hanging ornaments with Il Divo blasting in the background, I got so excited - on the brink of emotional - thinking about our tree and all that will happen under it this year and in years to come. I looked at each ornament - some that were Peter's, some that were mine - and saw how two lives came together this year.

It took us two days to finish - mostly because we needed more lights (still need one last strand) and we needed tinsel (the other item on the Naperville shortage list.) But on Monday night, it was a marvel to behold - the solution to the ranch's interior design challenges - the reason why I now believe we no longer need to spend money on house renovations - all we needed was Baum. 

Growing up, I used to spend December evenings laying under our family tree, looking up into its magical beauty - imagining how it surely came to life each night - how Clara danced with the Nutcracker; the trumpet and French horn harmonized with the soulful sounds of the saxophone; Bubby Brister threw a Hail Mary, Bobby Bonilla caught it, and passed it to Mario Lemieux; the train traveled along the bow of the tree to pick up Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, and Donald; me and my brother and sister, ages zero to thirty laughed and played together while Mom and Dad as Raggedy Ann and Andy watched over us; the shepherds herded the clay sheep; Gloria burst out in a hymn of glory and praise in front of a giant stain glass window; all gathered from near and far, right there in our living room to play witness to the birth of baby Jesus under the sun, moon and glimmering, half-eaten Star of David.

At the age of 29, as I gazed up at our very first tree this morning, I sensed the same kind of magic that I felt as a child, but with a new cast of ornamental characters. And I felt completely enamored and blessed by all the amazing things that have come my way this year, including Baum.

As strange as this Christmas tradition might be, I'm totally in love with it.

Lo.

S is for So Much More than Sweet

This week, Saveur posted a recipe for Dutch Letter Cookies - cookies that the recipe testers behind the magazine had made into the shape of an S. They titled the entry, S is for Sweet. 'Cute,' I thought.

But upon seeing the thumbnail image, I did a double take. 'Wait, I know what those are. And they're not Dutch. They should be crescent shaped, and filled with walnuts instead of almonds. They're Grandma's mini nut rolls!'

I flagged, tweeted, and pinned them, and kept returning to the photo and recipe all week, debating when I should make them, but in the shape of a C for Croatian.

Yesterday, was the day - I pulled out the recipe and made them. But despite my aforementioned claim that I would make them exactly like Grandma did, in the shape of little half moons, I couldn't resist the S-shape. It just seemed to work in a week where S stood for so much more than sweet - where S, could have had its very own Dr. Seuss' ABC's spin-off.  

To amuse myself, it would go something like this ...

S is for St. Nick, Santa, and Surprises
This week, I not only got a package from Saint Nick, I got a little something from Santa too. Remember how the real one was in Naperville the other day? Well, he came back and left a little something ironic on my door step. (Not joking.)

S is for the most Super, Stunning, and Smart Sister ever. 
Happy birthday big sis, and I really wish I could have been toasting champagne sparklers with you on Friday night.

S is for Seasonal, Sparkling Lights.
Last night, Peter, Claire, Trent and I strolled through Holiday Magic at the Brookfield Zoo. It was just as amazing as I had remembered, and along with the seasonal light display made even prettier by the first snow of the year, we got to see Lions, Tigers, Bears and Gorillas, oh my!

S is for Sixtieths, Sixty-year olds, and Snooze buttons
After Holiday Magic and dinner at Chew Chew in Riverside, we went to my father-in-laws 60th birthday party at a friend's house in LaGrange. The party started at 8:00 PM, and to my Early Riser persona's dismay, we left at 12:15 AM - the latest I had stayed up since the wedding I think. And the amazing part was, the party was STILL going. This group knows how to party - Singing James Brown bobble head, the twist and shout, viewings of the recently crowned champion Vizsla dog, wise and somewhat racy proverbs, endless Scotch, and very loud laughter party WAY better than I do. I brought the S is for my new last name cookies though. Needless to say, I hit the snooze button this morning.   

S is for Sentimental and Stipetich
Before I was an S - I was an F, but an F who actually had a little bit of S in her as well. My Grandma Barry's maiden name is Stipetich. And this week, I couldn't stop thinking about her. As you made have noticed from my Flickr photostream, each of my kitchen capers channeled her. Perhaps it was because I know she's having a hard time expressing her memories, and I wanted to help express them for her. Or perhaps, I was thinking, if I keep remembering, she'll remember with me. But regardless, I kept coming back to recipes that she probably learned from her Mom and Grandma, back when she was still a Stipetich.

I made the little crescent cookies that were always on her Christmas cookie platter. And I made stuffed pork chops, roasting them slow and low as she would have done.

And then I made my S's - but with a walnut filling, just like her mini nut rolls. They tasted like I remembered - and they took me back to 126 and Christmas dinners there and having not two or three, but five or six of her perfect little cookies. Which by the way, I now know must have been quite a labor of love.

Yes Saveur, S is for Sweet too - but for the sweet memories of cookies past that I will continue to resurrect and remake in Naperville, so by the time the family comes over for Christmas Eve dinner, I will have all the sweet memories on one plate for us to share. 

Lo.

Babysitters Club

My sister was an avid collector and reader of Babysitters Club books. She devoured just about every volume in the series and when finished, would add them to the line up on the shelf n sequential order from #1 to #60-something, alighting it with the books' bright array of colors.

Being the non-reader that I had chosen to be, I only made it as far as their covers. I did stare down #1 a couple times, debating whether or not it was worth using the precious time I had reserved for my imaginary friends to read it - after all, my sister had seen the benefit. But the internal deliberation didn't last long for I believed that the picture on the front told me everything that I needed to know.

Those tween girls with sassy names like Stacey and Kristi were extremely cool and I really, really wanted to be a babysitter, like them. 

In about seventh grade, despite my inability to achieve the chic look of the cover girls, I got my chance. I became eligible, according to some unwritten notion of maturity, as the back-up neighborhood babysitter for my sister. The only problem was, there were no babies on my block, just kids. So basically, I never did any baby watching. Instead, I played the role of paid friend to a kid who was three or four years younger than me. And honestly, I probably had more problems with this age group than I would  have had with babies

I had to deal with projectile vomiting - not spit up - I'm talking chunks; the fiercest kind of uncontrollable sibling fights that people would have lined up and paid to watch; kids who were way too old to continue having an affinity for going through life without pants; dogs trained to hate me, glare at me, and stalk me on my way to get myself a bowl of ice cream; parents who were late, later and latest; and kids that knew and used language that I hadn't even heard in the suite of PG-13 movies I wasn't supposed to watch. Sometimes, I wondered who was watching whom. Perhaps I should have read those books after all.

By the end of my sitting gig, I was always disheveled, frustrated, and certain that the next time the family called, I would pass the request to my sister.That is, unless there was a baby, 2 or under, involved. There never was. In fact, in all my years of babysitting, I never once got to watch a baby. I never even got to watch a 3 or 4 year-old.

That is, until last night.I finally got to babysit. And with it, I finally gained admittance into my own little babysitters club. Right now it only has two members - Peter and I - and we tag team any job. Last night, job #1, we watched our little godchild, while her mom and dad went to the movies.

And just as I had thought, babysitting was far easier than kid-sitting. There were no fights and no tears; she ate all of her dinner and nothing exploding out of either end; she stayed up a little later so she could dance to Glee with me, but when Peter said it was bedtime, she went right to bed; Roscoe didn't judge  me for loading another helping of spaghetti onto my plate after Ellie went to sleep; and her Mom and Dad were right on time. It was all that I had imagined it to be and more, and I was still in bed by 9:30 PM. (Phew.)

Now, I'm left thinking that volume #1 needs a sequel. Perhaps Lyla will take us up on it ... 

Lo

St. Nick

I guess when you put out the good shoes, you get the good stuff.

Happy St. Nicholas Day, especially to the original Mr. and Mrs. St. Nick! Missing the good old days ...

Lo.

A Fish Called Salmon

Seemingly, in 1993, households across America suddenly discovered the taste, health benefits, and availability of salmon. Children and families who had previously defined fish entrees by their canned tuna foundation, were delighted to unveil the wonders of this beautiful pink fish. Two households that joined the mass salmon migration were mine and Peter's.

When I was in fifth grade, my family became salmon aficionados. About once a week, my dad would brush  it with either his honey-mustard or lemon-dill sauce, grill it and serve it alongside couscous, sugar snap peas, and Breadworks rustic sourdough. I loved it and asked for it again and again, celebrating the fact that it had replaced my Dad's go-to fish dinner, fish with a coat of tan. (As little brother so boldly said, 'woof.')   

As fortune would have it, that same year I hit another culinary milestone. As my family gained admittance to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, I gained a golden ticket into the world of old-school, hoity-toity food culture - a wonderful world of vichyssoise and lobster bisque with Sherry; hollowed tomatoes filled with creamed spinach and servings of asparagus held together with carrot rings; table side bread service and little finger bowls of lemon-scented water; tiny gooey macaroons whose size allowed more than my three cookie limit; and the creme de la creme - salmon, seasoned, buttered, wrapped in puff pastry, and roasted till perfection - salmon wellington.The most epic entree - the most cataclysmic discovery of my petite palette - that I could have possibly imagined in fifth grade.

About 500 miles west of the corner table where I was devouring my new favorite food, in the village of LaGrange, Illinois, an eighth grader named Peter was sitting down to a salmon dinner of his own, the fourth that month. Concurrently, his family was having their own salmon bonanza. And while my love for salmon was reaching new heights with the inclusion of puff pastry, Peter's hatred was reaching new lows. Something in the repetition ruined the appeal. Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't caught it himself that made it undesirable. Or maybe it was just its color, pink, a girl color. But whatever the reason, he developed into the 'Sam I Am' of Salmon.

I, the salmon lover, married a salmon hater. And rarely, if ever, am I allowed to put it on the menu. I've tried a variety of recipes, but the reaction is always underwhelming, so I've basically given up.

That is, until I thought back to fifth grade. And puff pastry. And my introduction to the divine. Last night, I tried to sneak salmon into puff pastry and serve it for dinner.

But ... on the way to the Seafood counter at Whole Foods, Peter sniffed out my sneaky plan, and made me call an audible. A couple minutes later, I was adding a stop to the meat counter to my grocery getting duties. And we were not only having salmon wellington for dinner, we were having beef wellington as well.

So, it's back to drawing board. And I'm thinking that getting the smoker involved is my last hope.

Lo.

Santa and his Elves

This week, one of my coworkers told me that the elf on the shelf was back. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I asked her to elaborate. She told me that every year their family's very own elf comes all the way from the North Pole, perches himself on the mantel in their house, and acts as the eyes and ears of Santa in Western Springs, ultimately giving the big guy the 'yea' or 'nay' on whether or not her children have been nice this year.

I was intrigued. We never had an elf on our shelf. Really? 
It's a little toy. Here. 
(Best idea, product and marketing campaign ever.) Ooooooh ... Do your kids believe it? 
My ten year-old is the biggest believer.
(I loved hearing that.) 

The other people listening to the conversation scoffed at the elf's manipulative undertones - bewitching your children with messages like, 'the elf on the shelf is watching you. What you say, what you do,' to force good behavior - kind of creepy. I on the other hand, was totally bewitched myself. In fact, I wanted to go out and buy one. For me. Because I too, am still a believer despite what happened in fourth grade.

Just before entering the Holiday Bazaar in 1991, I had emotionally defended Santa Clause in a sea of non-believing St. Edmund students about ready to do their trinket shopping. After we were unleashed in the cafeteria that, for a limited time only, was converted into a PTA sponsored boutique, my friend, Caroline, the wisest of my classmates, pulled me aside. 

I asked her, Don’t you believe?

She sighed and said, I believe in Saint Nicolas and the spirit of Christmas.

She was telling me what the others were, in a softer way. 

That Christmas I stayed awake a little longer, hoping to hear him.

No bells.

No sleigh landing on the roof.

No reindeer commands.

On Christmas morning, I looked for the tell-tale signs, hoping to see him.

The carrots on the plate were gone, but the bag of carrots in the refrigerator was full again.

The 'from Santa' looked like my Dad’s handwriting.

My sister got a hairdryer, which was not on her list.

After Christmas dinner, I listened to the Aunt’s doing dishes.

So does Adam still believe?

What did you get the kids?

Evan’s list was so difficult this year!

Before going to bed I asked my sister and roommate, someone that was wiser than even Caroline, the big question - does he exist?

And I got an answer:

He’s doesn't, but don’t tell Adam.

From then on, the ever maturing grown up inside of me kept my belief at bay. Apparently, it was foolish to believe such stories. So for fear of ridicule, I just stopped talking about him. And soon enough, so did my family.

But this Friday night, after Peter and I went out for some sushi, we were strolling along the illuminated River Walk, and saw him. 

The real him in Naperville.

He was closing up his little visitor's center for the night, ready to go home. I wanted to ask him a question or two, but I figured Mrs. Claus had dinner on the table and didn't want it to get cold. So I just stared. And just as magically as he got from the North Pole to Naperville and back again on Friday, he answered my questions without even asking.

He exists.
And ... he needs me to be one of his elves.  

So yesterday, my first day on the job, I set out to be a very good elf. I started working on presents for good little girls and I cleaned the whole house for a good little boy. I spread 10 miles of Christmas cheer on a run around Naperville. Then I made a very good little girl clap when I appeared at lunch. I spent the afternoon making a red and green feast for my family, and I even made those Swiss sandwich cookies again, but marked them as only an elf can do - with a little wishing star. And I put together a magical little movie about the best wedding ever for my guests to watch.

I took my job very seriously. And I loved every minute of it.

So, all you ten, eleven, and twelve year-olds out there. I know you are looking for something and someone to doubt. But I'm telling you, don't jump to a conclusion too quickly. As someone who saw Santa on Friday, and who has asked to be an elf, I've got the truth.

Tweens, be careful what you say, there aren't only elves watching from shelves, there is one who runs around Naperville every morning, reporting good and bad behavior to the big guy up North.

Lo.

Countdown

The world has gone mad. Literally mad. Like 'everyone on their way home from work the past two days suddenly turned the I-88, to Diehl Road, to Ogden Avenue corridor into a bumper cars death match where they particularly want to get the black Mini Cooper' mad. I can feel the mad from ten miles away - the mad that caused the kind of shouting, cursing, gesturing, eye-rolling, head-shaking, and finger pointing that backed up traffic ad infintum. What's the big deal people? What the hell are you all so stressed out / pissed off / outer annoyed / inside exploding mad about?

What's that? Oh ... because it's the holiday season. And you only have 25 days to do all that holiday stuff that you are supposed to do. And instead of relishing in it, you are stressed. And mad. At me, the Mini Cooper, your last obstacle to turning the corner, opening your garage, and rushing inside so you can string the lights, trim the tree, hang the wreath, and keep up with the people next door who already had their display up yesterday. 

I've been baffled by drivers the past two evenings. What about the holidays stirs these kind of angry emotions? I honestly find myself in a completely alternative state of mind.

For instance, yesterday morning I woke up to the best thing ever - my advent calendar. A little paper one - number 29 in a lineage of advent calendars purchased by my Mom, gifted to me at the start of this sacred time of year. I popped open the number 1 to reveal a small segment of scripture, getting me one day closer to the manger scene, and I beamed. December 1. What a day.

December 1 marks the start of THE best month of the year - Early dismissals from work, cookie baking, Christmas decorations, buying your very first Christmas tree, a perpetually full table behind Vicky's desk to snack from all day, holiday parties, present wrapping, carols on the radio, Christmas card opening, greenery, and gifts, and conversion of Grinches! Love it. Yet, everyone seems to get stressed about it.

I think I figured out why yesterday. It's the omnipresent countdown and the daily to-dos that accompany it. For example, both BonAppetit.com and Saveur.com have a cookie baking countdown till Christmas loudly playing on their homepages. According to them, you are supposed to bake 31 days of cookies. Then if you go to Saks.com you start to think you need all of the hot, must have dresses for every holiday occasion, from day to night. From there you've got lists from FTD, Hallmark, Pottery Barn, North Face, Wine Spectator, Whole Foods and the neighborhood hardware store. By the time you calculate the amount of time you have and all the things you could do, you've gone crazy.

Commercializing Christmas doesn't just suck because it takes the spirit out of it, it sucks because it makes everyone go insane. My humble advice - commit to 10 or 12 days of Christmas, not 31. Do what you can do, have fun each time you deck the halls, and don't compare yourself to the people on the block who have turned their house into Kaufmann's Santa Land circa 1989. (You thought Halloween was bad in Naperville.) Turn on the carols on the way home from work. Relax, you'll get there. Realize that everyone most likely has enough stuff already, and probably doesn't need the last minute gifts you are rushing around to buy - give them a hug instead. And try to drown out the advertisements.

Now, I'll have you know, that I failed to follow my humble advice. Yesterday, I opened the first window of the virtual advent calendar on Saveur.com - the one telling me to bake a different cookie every day. And I fell into the trap. It revealed Spitzbeube - Swiss raspberry filled cookies - those perfect little sandwich ones. I did debate whether or not I should wait a day or two to delve into the holiday activities, but there was nothing on Vicky's desk yesterday, and figured I needed to contribute. Besides, Peter's famous chicken noodle soup was on the menu, so my 'night off' allowed me a little time to bake. And it was as fun as ever.

Happy December Days.

Lo.

The Best Friend

Recently, I realized something - for the past three months, I have been a somewhat lousy / very distant / pretty pathetic friend. The light bulb went off this past weekend when I neglected to contact any of my friends on Thanksgiving - when I surrendered to the games of phone tag I've been playing - and when I realized that the only way I've shared honeymoon stories and photos with them has been through my blog. I used to talk with my girlfriends every day! I used to know every little detail of their lives - and they used to know mine. What happened?

Just as soon as I had this realization, I pinpointed the culprit - that little someone who has been responsible for softening many of my friendships in the past - someone who I have always counted on for support, love and laughter - but who sometimes alienates me from the rest of the world - the best friend.

The concept of a best friend - naming one person as the creme de la creme of your circle of friends - can work really well, but it can also be a little tricky. Especially if aren't sure that your best friend reciprocates your superlative affection or the other people on the outside, looking in, lose interest in your friendship. Some people believe in best friends, some people don't. I for one, have always believed in them, and I've always had a best friend or two or ten. 

In grade school, I had just one. And we did everything together. We had our own jokes, our own language, our own logo (yes, a logo), and our own table where we would order tuna salad sandwiches with Cape Cod potato chips at Max and Erma's. With her by my side, no one else in the world existed - and the other friends I had drifted away, annoyed by our exclusiveness. 

In high school, I picked up another one, and the three of us helped each other through the rungs of our academic and social evolutions. After spending all day at school together, we would run home to talk on the phone, spending hours making sure no stone was left unturned in our knowledge and understanding of each other.

Freshmen year of college, when my besties went elsewhere, I immediately found two more friends with whom I could bike to practice, play the role of really awkward girl at a senior lacrosse party, and gain consolation when each of my crushes chose other less bulky girls over me. Immediately, we were a trio of best friends with an armory of inside jokes.

By the time I graduated MBA school, I had about 10 best friends, and each of them were in my wedding. One of my favorite parts of that special day was hanging out with them in the morning - seeing their smiling faces - hugging them - remembering all that we had been through together and how each of them had influenced me.

Now this is the sad part. With the exception of a brief Thanksgiving drink last weekend with my go-to Max and Erma's date, and a drunk tailgate drive by of #27 at Notre Dame, I hadn't talked to any of my friends on the phone or in person since the wedding. Terrible, (I know!) So yesterday, I laid rest to the ennui of e-mail and finally phoned a friend. And caught up. While chatting with my friend, Nicole, who admitted to being equally bad at keeping in touch as me, we both realized the reason why ... it was because we both had new best friends who were monopolizing our time. And they weren't girls, they were boys.

Mine is Peter.

And he is the kind of exclusive, clicky, I do everything with him kind of best friend. I honestly never thought it was possible for me to have a boy as a best friend, but all signs point to it being right. He is always there to lend a helping hand - he doesn't care that I use twice as much toilet paper as him - he gives the best kind of hugs and back rubs - he makes me laugh as heartily as Meredith - he too wants to create a crest or logo for our partnership - and before he leaves for work he says things like "I'll see you at our regularly scheduled special time." Which just makes my day.

Long ago though, before each of my best friends had boyfriends, and fiances, and husbands, we promised each other that we would never let boys get in the way. That we would always be there for each other.Although I can use the excuse that my husband is my best friend as well, he's still a boy. And I still need to be there for my girls. So tonight, I'm saying a little apology for being the foreign friend. And recommitting to the click that I couldn't live without.


Having a best friend is great. But having best friends with an 's' makes life a lot more fun. 

Phone tag - game on!

Lo.

Falling Water

Although it's been in the best possible way, Thanksgiving weekend in Pittsburgh more or less consisted of two primal elements - eating and exercising. Feasting and attempting to counteract the thigh plumping consumption with vigorous daily activity. Hoping to achieve the improbable result of not gaining a pound even though you are well aware by the residual sugars in your mouth that you have done more than your part to kill three of the five pies served on Thanksgiving Day.

So after two plus days of the eat and run/walk/bounce the baby/throw the football/play lacrosse routine down, I felt like Saturday called for some culture. I felt like I needed a day of enlightenment where I could resurrect and relish in my degree in art and architectural history - a rare degree serving about .005% of the population.

Having previously toured all the museums in Pittsburgh with Peter, and given that it was one of the balmiest November days ever, I decided that we should venture outside of Pittsburgh, into the mountains, and onto the property of Falling Water, Frank Lloyd Wright's pivotal residential masterpiece built for the Kaufmann family in 1939 over Bear Run Falls. So my sister, Peter and I made a day trip out of it.

The little architectural excursion came at a perfect time actually, as I put the final details on the ranch renovation brief for our future contractor. Although nowhere near the scale and genius of Falling Water, there are aspects of our retro home that call to mind Wright - aspects that if redesigned under some of the principles of Falling Water, could help make it more than a box. 

First, the theme of organic architecture perfectly embodied in Falling Water - a retreat where man could truly be one with nature - with the sound, dynamism, and power of the Falls. Wright seamlessly fused inside and out: The woodland springs and landscaping flow naturally into the house; The boulders that the house was built upon almost magically emerge from the limestone floor; And the lines, textures and colors meld with its surroundings as if the home was always meant to be there.

Second, the open floor plan - another Wright signature. Wright was a strong proponent of family centered life, so in his homes he built community spaces free of walls, where the family could be united in space despite being segmented by their various activities. All was centered at the hearth though - the heart of the home - a warming, illuminating, massive element that brought character, charm, and togetherness to the house. 

Wright sought to destroy the box at Fallingwater. He hated 'the box.' (And in it's very nature, surely, would hate our ranch.) Through designing nooks and niches in the house, lowering the ceilings forcing your gaze outside, employing the circle and semicircle to soften the planar lines, and pushing glass and steel straight against the stone to diminish the role of the wall, he freed the house from corners and compartmentalization. Instead you want to continue to move through the house - and with it, from inside to outside, room to room, natural element to natural element.

Finally, Wright used cantilevers, trays more or less, solidified on immense boulders and thrust over the Falls like diving boards, plunging almost miraculously over space. The result is a house nearly floating in air, suspended over the falls. It is magical.

So, from Falling Water to add to the ranch renovation brief:

• Organic, open design that fuses inside and outside. 
• Need ways to destroy the seven or so smaller boxes that make up the big box we live in. 
• We don't have a hearth, but our stove is the heart of the house.
• We lack space - perhaps using a cantilever and adding a tray off the back could open the house up more. 
• Oh, and unlike Falling Water, stay on budget. But if you can find the skilled Falling Water laborers that cost 75 cents an hour, that would be great. 

At the end of our tour, we figured it had been long enough without a meal - we had earned our picnic. So we ate. And then moved on to Ohiopyle to hike it off.

Lo.